Resonance
by Adison
Summary: On the evening of Christine Daaé's great triumph, Madame Giry finds herself alone. One shot.


**Resonance**

_For Le Chat Noir, aka Chatastic, who made me think, "Man, what _does _Madame Giry do with all those notes?" Here's to you, Chat. I hope you like your present._**

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The dark, scratched wood of the small box shone in the candlelight. The flame danced in the reflection, a bright glow spreading across the table and onto the pale wood of the wall. The woman kneeled at the table, bowing her head as if praying at an altar, and slid a hand across the smooth wood, grasping the box and drawing it near.

The top of the box opened easily and she dipped a hand into the depths, withdrawing a bundle of aged envelopes, tied together with a thin strip of black satin.

She reached into her reticule and pulled out a letter—the same stationery as the ones in the bouquet before her—worn, cream-colored and edged with black. She turned the paper over in her hand and smoothed the creases with her fingertips, delicately stroking the grinning skull that had sealed the envelope shut.

Sliding the letter into the tied bundle with its brothers, she lifted herself into a chair and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Taking a deep, steady breath, she glanced at herself in the mirror.

There were still traces of youth in the curve of her lip, the arch of her brow. The child she once was still lingered: a naive, eager girl who was often too helpful for her own good.

The bundle of missives sat on the table, a pile of evidence against the man she had fought so hard to protect. Twenty-five years had passed since she had become his savior. Twenty-five years to the day, and still, her heart grew heavy and pained at the thought of the boy she had taken upon herself to save. The boy knew nothing of life, or survival, or love, and the young girl had relished in teaching him what she knew. She had been in charge then, and it had been a relief.

The desperation for order and structure had seeped into her early on, an insatiable want for some sense of the control that had been ripped from her. She had become acquainted with the unyielding cruelty of mortality at too young an age when illness had robbed her of both Mother and Father. She was at a threshold then, the limbo between girl and woman, and she had been forced to step from one realm to the other too quickly.

Refuges had been offered to her, first in the form of the dormitories of the Opéra Populaire, then, later, as Jules Giry.

_Jules._ He had been a great comfort to the frightened child she just couldn't seem to stop being. Responding to his strength and love the only way she knew how, she bore him a child at nineteen: a perfect, tiny girl with a quick smile and her father's eyes.

But Death, it seemed, had developed a taste for Antoinette Giry, and soon her husband fell victim to the mythical scythe.

He had died without knowing her one secret, and the mixture of guilt and relief had weighed heavily upon her. So many years had passed, and still, that strange combination of emotions lingered.

The well-kept secret himself remained as mangled and angry as he had been since she first saw him: locked in a cage like a disobedient dog. Why she felt the need to protect and shelter a murderer with a demon's face, she never knew. However, he relied on her entirely during those first few years... though still trapped, in a sense, in the cellars of the opera house, he could wander them freely and often insisted she accompany him on his latest adventure. As they grew bolder, the two children snuck around all the cellars, the backstage, the dressing rooms... he spent several years learning all the trick doors and sliding panels in the building, using them to appear suddenly and startle her whenever possible. Her surprised shrieks delighted him to no end, and his marred face would light up with laughter.

Then, one day, he asked her, quite innocently, if she could possibly procure some white leather. Take a small piece from the costume mistress' supplies, perhaps. He wished to make himself a mask.

She complied. Days later, he, once again, appeared unannounced in her room, his disfigurement concealed behind the smooth hide. Her heart constricted as she remembered the shock—the unimaginable shock—of seeing him looking so different… so terribly, terribly beautiful.

Soon after that mask made its first appearance, she had married Jules and abandoned her little foundling. Over her short marriage, she tried so hard to push the boy with the corpse-face and the achingly beautiful voice out of her heart, but she never could manage to escape him in her dreams.

Jules died and she was hardened; a bitter young woman with a child who did not deserve the coldness presented to her from her only living parent. But she could not bring herself to show the desperate affection she felt for her daughter... a terrifying idea had crept into the back of her mind: she was cursed. Those she had loved had all fallen around her, and she would not see her child suffer the same fate. She felt like a ridiculous gypsy woman for even entertaining such a thought, but she could not seem to shake it. So Meg Giry was raised without any visible love, except for the few times her mother's tenderness, when it simply couldn't be dammed, shone through. They were content, however, and it was enough.

After Jules died, she took her daughter and returned to the Opéra Populaire, willing her body to form the shapes it once did, driving herself to illness more than once with her unrelenting practice. Her daughter showed an interest in dance at an early age, and she found herself, once again, the teacher. It was after she had been appointed ballet mistress that the notes began appearing.

She had often thought of the masked man when she returned to the opera house. She had searched for him, calling his name and wandering the dark halls. The hidden doors they had used as children had been sealed; either he had left, or someone had finally found him. Her own involvement prevented her from inquiring to anyone about his fate; aiding in the concealment of a murderer was a serious charge, and she had no interest in risking imprisonment for the sake of a man who had probably left his life at the opera behind forever.

The cream-colored envelope, edged in a pristine black, addressed to her in messy, child-like penmanship, had appeared on her dressing table; the very one she sat at now, very early in the morning. It contained a short note: _Welcome home._

And then he came to her.

Older now, so much older... not the child she had left and fought to forget, but a tall, strong man, bitterness and hatred still radiating off of him. The white mask graced his deformity, contrasting sharply with the immaculate black of the suit clothing him. His eyes had wandered over her body unabashedly and she had shrunk slightly under his gaze—a shy child embarrassed by attention.

"Madame Giry," he had said in that cold, beautiful voice.

"Erik," she had replied, testing the name on her tongue. It had been years since she had spoken it aloud, and it sounded strange now—foreign and mysterious.

"You have done well for yourself." His lip curled up. "Your daughter shines."

"Thank you." It was all so formal; a far cry from the comfort the two children had shared, an easy companionship in the darkness of the cellars.

"I was sorry to hear of your husband's death. He seemed a decent man."

"He was."

Both their heads turned at the sound drifting from the next room. A clear, delicate voice sang softly—a haunting, wordless melody filling the air with a light sweetness.

"Who is that?" he asked quietly, moving slowly towards the door that separated them from the source of the song.

"Christine Daaé," she replied. "A new student."

And from that moment on, he had been hopelessly lost.

It had angered her beyond reason that their first meeting in so many years had been interrupted by a pretty Swedish girl, barely eight years old. It marked the first time that the cold stab of jealousy had struck her, and she found herself inconceivably envious of that girl with her bright blue eyes, her perfect features, her heavenly voice.

The notes had grown more personal as time passed; inquiries about her current situation, about her daughter, her students. Then the requests began. It wasn't extortion, exactly, he had explained. He would never do anything to actually _endanger_ anyone. If she could simply pass on the message that the Opera Ghost required 20,000 francs a month, he would be grateful.

The Opera Ghost?

_My stealth is what has kept me alive. I can walk these halls undetected; haunt this building like an apparition. I am, in all ways but one, a ghost already. _

She never had been able to deny him anything.

He was clever with words; his threats to the managers, no matter how outlandish, never seemed empty.

For years, little Christine Daaé had come to her, blurting tales of an angel whose voice was the very essence of beauty, who never showed himself... he seemed to be nothing but a voice in her head. The ballet mistress instructed her to keep these lessons to herself; _she_ believed her, but who else would? No, you may not tell anyone, not even Meg. Her daughter was a skittish thing, and learning that her best friend was receiving lessons from a suspended voice would frighten her.

"Show yourself, Erik," she had scolded him. "She deserves to know."

He had left, striding across the room silently, that cloak fluttering behind him.

She hated that her heart still ached every time he walked out of a room.

Christine Daaé was grown now, as much a woman as she would ever be. Her voice had perfected itself. And that night, she had stood on stage, nervously displaying her teacher's gifts to Paris, who held its breath with wonder.

"He will be pleased with you," the ballet mistress had told the giddy girl, handing her a blood-red rose. The little dancer had looked terrified and enthralled at the words.

The older woman had smiled sadly and patted the child's cheek.

_Make certain that she is alone,_ the note had read. The shaky handwriting had unnerved her, but she did as she was told, an obedient child once more.

She watched him turn the key in the dressing room's door, her eyes never leaving the fluid movements his hands made.

He looked at her, the masked man. Bowing briefly, he disappeared into the shadows along the hallway, ducking out of sight. She looked down and saw an envelope at her feet, addressed to _Mme. Giry, Ballet Mistress, The Opéra Populaire._

She opened the seal carefully and withdrew the letter inside.

_Thank you._

Now she sat at her dressing table, an older woman with an unloved daughter and a boxful of letters from the lover she never had. She wondered where they were now, her little foundling and his pupil. Was he was caressing her with his voice, or his hands, or his lips? Was she was frightened or entranced or eager?

That familiar sting of jealousy slid under her skin once again, and she carefully picked up the bundle of letters. She held them up for a moment, feeling their weight on her palm, then brought them to her mouth and pressed her lips against them briefly. She returned them to the box and slid the cover back on, standing from her seat and looking at herself in the mirror wearily.

Oh, Christine would forgive him for his deception, given time... she would most likely fall under his spell and into his arms, rising from the depths of loneliness in which her father's death had left her, gladly taking her teacher's heart and giving him hers in return.

A cold wave of sorrow washed over the ballet mistress, and she angrily wiped at her wet eyes. No... no, maybe it was best to grieve now. Let Christine have her celestial being. Antoinette had had him, for a brief time, as a wide-eyed boy—a scared innocent who needed protecting beyond everything else. Perhaps... perhaps even pretty chorus girls could not break the bond that she and Erik shared. Yes, perhaps, in the back of his mind, he still held a place for her, and her alone; a warmth that no other being could ever replace.

_After all,_ she realized, a smile tugging at her mouth, _I was his angel first_.

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_Big, gooey, fresh-from-the-oven thanks to Gondolier for betaing. She's fantastic. You know it's true. Yeah, you do_.  



End file.
